Sing Me A Lullaby
by Amillea Moravii
Summary: A collection of Sherlock fics based around a different song each chapter, containing various characters and situations, though most are dark. Strong themes, self harm, excessive drinking, thoughts of/and suicide. Warnings present at the beginning of each chapter to let you know what's in them. Currently taking requests.
1. My Immortal

_**DISCLAIMER: ****I do not own Sherlock. All characters, themes, actions and items taken from the series belong to their respective owners.**_

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_******CHAPTER TITLE AND SONG INSPIRATION: My Immortal - Evanescence**_

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_********__**WARNING: Thoughts of suicide. I do not encourage or condone this act, and if you find yourself in the trap of this, please try to find help. Even if you can't trust the people around you, message me - I'm here for anyone and everyone.**_

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**Chapter 1. My Immortal**

With a final shudder his body gave way, succumbing to the pain, the anguish, the fear, the helplessness. John fell to his knees, head bowed, hands screwing in his hair. He felt some of the blonde strands give and the stinging sensation as his nails clawed at his scalp. His head, his heart, his eyes… all of them burned. The tears that were waiting, ready to fall were causing such a build-up of pressure that he felt as if he would explode.

He wondered if it would stop the pain.

John raised his head, those burning tears finally breaking through the wall he'd built up around himself and falling in some form of abandon. Because that was what had happened. He'd been abandoned.

He couldn't go home. Home hurt too much – _his_ scent still permeated every corner of the apartment, _his_ ridiculous experiments still set up in the kitchen, half-finished and now, they never would be.

He tried to be strong, he really did… But John was beyond caring. _He'd_ been gone for a month now, and the wound in John's heart was a fresh as the day _he'd_ jumped from that roof. John had seen it all in perfect clarity – too perfect. He wanted to claw at his eyes, his brain, to remove that image that had been seared into his consciousness. That image of _him_ teetering on the edge of the roof, the pain in _his_ voice as _he'd_ left _his_ 'note'.

He wanted to go back and stop it from ever happening.

John let out a strangled sob. Breathing was becoming difficult, and he was burning even more than before. Everything was on fire, being charred to a pile of black ash – everything but the memories. Those memories.

The ones he couldn't live with, but he also couldn't live without.

_His_ tears, probably the only real ones John had ever seen, _his_ voice, trembling as he said goodbye, _his_ damnable ability to deduce the most impossible things driving John up the wall, _his_ anger with the world that had always seemed that little bit comical. _His_ denial in taking any case that _he_ didn't think was 'worth it' – and being able to figure them all out simply by the description.

_His_ whacky ability to see right through everyone with a single glance, so _he_ always knew when _he'd_ crossed a line, even if _he_ didn't understand it. _His_ attempts at being social when John managed to convince _him_ to be. _His_ laugh – deep and boisterous, and always appearing at the most inopportune times. That look _he_ always got when he'd finally pieced it together before anyone else had even heard the full story.

Then there were the ones that just made John want to curl up into a ball and sob until he had no tears left.

Curing him of his psychosomatic limp. Their first case together. Their first chase through the streets after a suspect. Take-away after a long day when John just didn't feel like cooking. _His_ strong, nimble fingers taking seconds to remove the bomb-ridden vest that had been strapped to him when he couldn't have done it himself, no matter how hard he tried. The warmth of _his_ body. _His _smell.

John honestly didn't know what to do, what to say, what to think. It had been a month, and he still couldn't function properly. His limp had started to come back again, as if _his_ presence was what had kept it at bay. Now that _he_ was gone, it had started to creep back into his life, making menial tasks much more difficult than they should have been.

That wasn't the only thing that had returned. His nightmares were back with a vengeance – but now it wasn't only of the frontlines and the war. They were shadowy and difficult to make out but for three excruciatingly clear features – shining, crimson blood, dark curls and eyes of such a sharp, clear blue they might as well have been mirrors, seeing and reflecting everything turning blank and lifeless.

Not only that, but John had become lazy. His military training had always kept him sharp, ready to act and react at a moment's notice, but now he could barely move around, his only exercise being these trips to the cemetery. Every day, for anywhere from minutes to hours at a time he would come back and visit the graveyard, crouching at _his_ feet and hoping that somehow, somewhere, impossibly, _he_ was alive and would walk out from behind a tree, kneel beside him and comfort him, telling him that everything was over.

Then he could have died a happy man.

John curled in on himself, his tears falling harder and faster until he was sure he'd drown in them. The saltiness dripped through his lips and he clenched his teeth, tasting blood. He wasn't even sure which part of him he'd bit through – everything was throbbing like it had been stabbed with a poisoned knife and then had acid poured on it, penetrating his very being. Every beat of his heart was torture, and – not for the first time – he wondered if ending it all was his only option.

As the burning reached its peak point, a high whimper escaped John's throat before stopping mid-whine. It was becoming a regular occurrence – when the pain became too much to bear, his body would protest in the only way it knew how – by calming right down, shutting off all emotions and thought, and, in its own way, ceasing to exist.

John coughed, tasting the metallic saltiness of blood, and wondering if the pain would ever leave him alone. He couldn't take much more of this. He was surprised he'd lasted as long as he had, but every day he'd hurt for longer and longer before he gave in to the nothingness.

He didn't know if it was progress or not.

As the sobbing and the crying stopped, John felt empty. Everything he had and was had fallen into oblivion, now that _he_ was gone. There was no-one to hold the light, no-one to lift the veil that had fallen over him as soon as he had witnessed his first patient die in front of him as he frantically worked to save his life.

In Afghanistan, he was too busy to dwell on those he wouldn't save, too tired to feel the guilt crashing around him and suffocating him. When he got back he had suffered terribly, and he had continued suffering until _he_ had entered his life and given it purpose again.

_He_ had saved countless people. From others. From themselves.

And one of those people was John.

With a calm, steady body, John rose to his feet. He walked a few steps and knelt at the headstone, fixing some of the fake flowers and rearranging the ones that had fallen over. The sky was dark, and in the hours that he had been sitting there, lost in himself and weeping, it had grown cold. The wind picked up a little, just enough to rustle his hair and stir the petals on some of the flowers.

His eyes stayed closed until he felt the first few drops of rain splash on him. He took a few seconds to wish he'd brought a coat and an umbrella, but he discarded the thought almost as quickly as he'd thought it. The cold was welcome – if only it had arrived a little earlier – perhaps it may have helped him to combat the burning that was overriding everything he was.

However much he wanted it to end, he was thankful to the burning, to the cold, to the hurt.

It meant he was alive.

He missed _him._ He honestly did. Losing _him_ was by far the worst thing that had ever happened in his life. It had torn him apart – his body, his mind, his soul. Everything had become a pile of shattered dust, catching on fire just to cause more pain every time he closed his eyes.

He wanted it to end, but he couldn't do it. He couldn't end it. He needed to collect himself before he followed _him_. What would _he_ say if John went and found him on the other side as he was?

"_Honestly, John, what were you thinking? You just had to go and disappoint me. I thought I could trust you to be strong, to take care of Mrs Hudson, and Mycroft – though he'd never admit to needing help – and Lestrade. And Molly. You had to look after Molly."_

John couldn't go and find _him_ yet. Not just yet. He'd do it one day, when he was ready.

_I promise you, Sherlock. I will find you._

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**A/N: Well, there it is. Never written a Sherlock FanFic before. I've just come to the close of my first main story, so I'm dabbling in all sorts of categories, styles, shows/books/anime etc. at the moment, before I write another big one. I'm experimenting. This collection is basically me taking a song and writing a story about it.**

**There won't be a set time for updates for this story - just whenever I write one. I will take requests (check description for status on requests) - PM me ****or review**** a song and an artist as a minimum - any other information you want incorporated can be done. The more you give me, the easier it is to write these things :)**

**Well, here's the first chapter. Thank you for reading my random depressing-ness stuff, and I hope to see you in the next chapter ^.^**

**Normally my author's notes are more crazy than this.**

**So let's add crazy.**

**VIRTUAL COOKIES TO EVERY PERSON THAT REVIEWS, AND IF YOU DON'T REVIEW I'LL GET MY CAT TO EAT YOUR FACE!**

**Seriously****, though. My cat eats people. It's creepy.**

**I love you all, my beautiful/handsome readers and reviewers!**


	2. Fade to Black

_**DISCLAIMER: ****I do not own Sherlock. All characters, themes, actions and items taken from the series belong to their respective owners.**_

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_**CHAPTER TITLE AND SONG INSPIRATION: Face to Black - Metallica**_

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_**WARNING: Self harm, excessive drinking, suicide. I do not encourage or condone any of these acts, and if you find yourself in the trap of any of these, please try to find help. Even if you can't trust the people around you, message me - I'm here for anyone and everyone.**_

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**Chapter 2. My Fade to Black**

The godforsaken sun tried to peer into the window, filling the room with a golden glow. The huddled shape on the bed grunted in protest and pulled the covers over his eyes, encasing himself back into the darkness that he had grown so attached to in the past few months. Under the sheets smelled of liquor and sweat – John Watson hadn't risen in days and alcohol had been his only sustenance.

He growled in the back of his throat, a scratchy feeling scraping at it, and he winced, screwing his eyes even tighter shut as his head started throbbing painfully.

So the alcohol had finally worn off. He was finally getting the hangover. For the past week he'd kept it at bay by drinking every time he started to ache – the mixture of brandy, vodka, and whiskey bottles that littered the floor made it difficult to walk. Every step he took, there was a chance of cutting his feet open on the smashed glass that had become like a carpet.

He still hated it here. He would still smell _him_, or see one of _his_ experiments, or discover another one of _his_ notebooks, scribbled in a language only _he _could understand.

And John hated it.

He heard a noise from downstairs. Mrs Hudson was making a fuss – probably fixing him a meal that he would promptly refuse to eat, and then he would growl and yell at her for coming to interrupt him when he was dealing with his anger. Then he would throw something – possibly the bottle that had fallen out of his hands last night – and she would squeal and vacate the apartment with a quiet sob.

That was what their routine was, anyway.

John didn't much fancy the idea of changing it. Every few days he would hear her come inside and attempt to clean up the mess that had accumulated, and every few days he would completely ignore her.

His phone shrilled; his hand ducked out above the blankets to check caller I.D.

Mycroft.

No-one special. He ended the call before he even answered it.

His hands raked through his hair, down his face, scratching at the skin, as if he could rip it all off and begin again, but he knew he couldn't. He could never begin again – not like he wanted to. He could only become colder, more reserved, crueler to himself and the rest of the world.

Nothing could ever be forgotten, nor removed, nor replaced. He had lot too much – his friend, his confidant, his saviour, his reason. His sanity, his life, his dreams, his strength.

His love.

None of that could ever be replaced – he could try for the rest of his life, but nothing would ever be who _he_ was. No-one and nothing could replace him – not women, not animals, not sunshine, not alcohol.

He didn't even wince as his skin opened up and blood started to dribble slowly, lazily down his face, neck and hands. His nails dug into the pale, dirty flesh and he welcomes the stinging agony that he could _feel_, that was _physical_, that focused the raging madness within him.

As blood continued to pour he reached out again, his hands grasping for something that wasn't there. The burning on his face and in his heart was becoming unbearable. He needed to stop it. He needed it to end.

He couldn't take any more.

After a few minutes of fumbling around blindly, his hand closed over something cold and smooth, and he breathed a sigh of relief. He'd found just what he needed, just the thing to take away the pain.

His fingers twined around it, holding it tight. His thumb flipped the switch.

The last thing he heard before everything ended was an opening door and a swift scream.

He fell, limp, forever clutching the gun in his still-warm hand.

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**A/N: Well, whaddya know. An update. That was unexpected, even for me.**

**I was in the middle of cleaning the house and I had the sudden urge to finish the half-written story that had been sitting on my hard drive for a few weeks, so here you go. Enjoy :)**

**Well, I don't know if you can, considering how depressing it is, but you can try. I'm excited, because I'm seeing Iron Man 3 in cinemas tonight with some of my closest friends, so I figured I may as well give you all something too :)**

**Well, till next time :)**

**Review, please, dearies :) I got three on the last one, and I'm ecstatic about that :) How about a few more? ;)**

**Thank you all for reading, dearies :)**


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